


As often as from thee I go

by some_stars



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (not as a kink geralt just...smells him a lot), Crying, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Scenting, this is extremely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23877376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: Jaskier says, "We absolutelymustdo that again sometime."So they do. And if, the second time and the third time, Geralt wishes--wishes he could go a little slower, perhaps, or hold Jaskier a little more gently--or curl up against him after, wrap his arms around him and feel Jaskier's heartbeat pressed against his chest--That's not what Jaskier wants.(Or, idiot fuckbuddies to lovers in 2500 words. With crying!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 131
Kudos: 1837





	As often as from thee I go

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some pure idfic about Jaskier crying during sex and both of them pining over each other, so I did. If someone besides me enjoys it, that's a bonus. 
> 
> Title is from [The Legacy](https://www.bartleby.com/357/13.html) by John Donne, which is not really appropriate aside from the first two lines.

The first time is—Jaskier flirts, because he always flirts, flirts and peacocks and teases and _tempts,_ and one day when Geralt is particularly weary, or maybe frustrated, or maybe the light happens to hit differently on Jaskier's collarbones, he gives in. Pins him to the ground, listens to his nervous speeding heart and inhales the scent of lust that's suddenly clouding the air, and leans in close, and says, "Do you want this?"

Jaskier nods frantically, wrists twisting in his tight grip but purposelessly, with no attempt to get away. And Geralt lets himself take, and take, and satisfy his every desire on Jaskier's all-too-willing body. It's _good,_ even better than his mostly-idle and increasingly frequent imaginings—the way Jaskier goes loose and yielding when Geralt bites (so carefully) at his throat, the sounds he makes with wild abandon when Geralt pushes inside him. It's all exactly what he wants, that time, and it seems to be what Jaskier wants too, and afterward they lie side by side, Jaskier panting and Geralt's heart slowing gradually back to its normal glacial pace.

Jaskier says, "We absolutely _must_ do that again sometime."

So they do. And if, the second time and the third time, Geralt wishes—wishes he could go a little slower, perhaps, or hold Jaskier a little more gently—or curl up against him after, wrap his arms around him and feel Jaskier's heartbeat pressed against his chest—

That's not what Jaskier wants. Tenderness isn't part of the deal, nor is soft words, or feelings, or kisses that don't lead to fucking. It's not what Jaskier asked for, and it's certainly not why someone would choose to bed a witcher.

He _likes_ what they do. He does. He isn't going to lose it by asking for the impossible.

And if sometimes, mid-fuck, he can't keep himself from capturing Jaskier's mouth with his own; if sometimes his hand on Jaskier's wrist slides up to interlace their fingers—well, things happen in the heat of passion; it can be excused. As long as he doesn't push further. As long as he doesn't ask for too much.

\--

Jaskier announces his departure a few days ahead of time—a festival in Novigrad, apparently, where there will be music and poetry and dance, and all the other things that Jaskier loves and gets none of when he travels with Geralt. Geralt responds with a nod and a grunt and doesn't ask to come along, because that would be ridiculous. Jaskier would have no use for him there where he's in his element; would get no songs or stories out of Geralt trailing awkwardly along behind him and watching him sing. It's about time for them to part anyway. Jaskier never stays longer than a month or two—it seems to be about how long he can tolerate life on the road and Geralt's dubious campfire cooking, because after four weeks, or six, or sometimes—rare, lovely times—eight, he always starts making conspicuous noises about some city or court or old friend, and shortly after that he'll be gone.

They usually fuck the night before he leaves, and this time is no different, except. Somehow it is, and Geralt doesn't know why. He approaches Jaskier, as he usually does, because Jaskier likes it—likes the feeling of being pursued, hunted, wanted. It's obvious from his scent, and the way he shivers when Geralt sits next to him and pulls him closer with a rough hand on the back of his neck, as possessive as he dares, and breathes in the soft skin of his throat, teasing Jaskier's pulse with his teeth.

"Oh," Jaskier breathes softly, and sways into him, "yes..."

He smells like _want,_ and _need,_ and Geralt wants to give him everything. He bites down once, just hard enough to hurt a little, and savors the sound of Jaskier's choked-off yelp that comes with a spike in his heartbeat and a cloud of lust so thick it's dizzying.

He picks up Jaskier and deposits him less than gently on the bedroll, and it knocks a little huff of breath out of him along with a wide smile. "Is this my going away present?" Jaskier says. "You going to fuck me so hard I can still feel it by the time I get to Novigrad?"

Geralt growls, and ignores the agonized twist in his stomach at the thought of Jaskier leaving him _again_ , and does his best to fulfill what's been asked of him.

It's not like it's hard, after all, to fuck Jaskier. He pushes him over onto his stomach and Jaskier goes easily, willingly, shimmying out of his shirt as Geralt tugs his trousers off as roughly as he can without tearing them. He thrusts his finger in without any oil, because Jaskier likes that, likes a little burn with his pleasure as Geralt opens him up for his cock. 

When Jaskier is moaning, up on his hands and knees and pushing back for more, Geralt pulls his hand free and plants it between Jaskier's shoulderblades, shoving just hard enough until his face is flat against the bedroll, turned to one side to catch quick panting breaths. 

"Please," Jaskier whimpers, and Geralt slicks himself up and pushes in—slower than Jaskier wants, probably, but for all his wild appetites Geralt is unwilling to actually hurt him. He sinks deeper a half inch at a time, savoring Jaskier's gasps and sighs and little pleas as much as the impossible tightness of him that grips his cock as fiercely as ever, despite how many times they've done this. (And how many times Jaskier has certainly done this with others, he knows, but he can't think about that _now_ —)

Finally their hips are locked together, skin to skin. Jaskier's eyes are closed, mouth open, sweat springing up on his forehead, and Geralt wants so badly to sit back on his heels and pull Jaskier up against him, to cradle him as he fucks him, press a kiss behind his ear and whisper to him to _stay_. But that's not what Jaskier wants from him, and he will not ruin the gift he's been given by asking for more.

So he fucks him as hard as his body craves, sublimating every foolish soft urge into his punishing thrusts and his iron grip on the back of Jaskier's neck, biting his lip against all the stupid words that want to fall out. Jaskier pushes back against him, and begs incoherently, and squirms deliciously under his hands, just like he does every time, and Geralt can't bring himself, after a while, to watch him any longer. He lets his eyes fall closed, cursing himself even as his body barrels enthusiastically toward a climax—so it's not until he hears a sudden hitching little breath and breathes in the acrid, salty scent that he realizes Jaskier has started to cry.

Geralt freezes, every drop of arousal in his body instantly replaced by creeping cold anxiety. "Jaskier?" he rasps, as carefully as he can, but gets no answer. He forces himself to look, and sure enough, Jaskier's face is twisting up, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes. Geralt lets go of him immediately and moves back, his softening cock slipping out of Jaskier's body.

He's hurt him, he realizes—he must have, he must have gone too far this time, lost control, he _hurt_ him and he's _crying_ and Geralt thinks he might be sick. But he can't, because he needs—he needs to fix this. Whatever this is.

"What's wrong?" he says, making his voice as gentle as he can. To his horror, Jaskier bursts into tears, his soft weeping transforming into sobs as he curls in on himself like a hurt child. Geralt's hands hover above his body as he fights the urge to gather Jaskier into his arms and soothe him, because if Geralt just made him cry from fucking him that's surely the last thing he wants. But gods, he doesn't know what else to do. "Are you hurt?" he asks helplessly. "Should I..." He trails off, not knowing what to offer.

Jaskier shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. "Not—I'm not—" He can't seem to get out any more than that, and Geralt's worry sharpens to fear. These aren't tears from being fucked too hard; this is something more. This is...

Did Jaskier _want_ this? Yes, he asked for it, of course, he flirted like he always does, and Geralt's sure he wasn't mistaking the scent of lust that surrounded him. But what one's body wants and what one wants to _do_ aren't always the same, and now Geralt can't help but wonder if he's been—taking advantage. Taking more than Jaskier wanted to give him, every time, all this time. He's vaguely aware that he's panicking, but he can't seem to stop, not with Jaskier lying in front of him choking off frantic sobs into his hands.

"I'm sorry," he says, and tries not to let any of his guilt stain his voice, tries to stay steady and even and so, so gentle. "I didn't...please tell me what's wrong? What do you need?"

He waits, and doesn't touch, as Jaskier hiccups and swallows and finally manages to croak, "I need—hold me?" as he looks everywhere but at Geralt with wet and helpless eyes. Geralt doesn't understand—why would Jaskier want him _closer_ to him right now?—but he does as he's asked, lies down at Jaskier's side and pulls him in tight, one hand slipping into his hair and the other rubbing soothing circles on his back. 

Slowly Jaskier starts to calm. The sobbing turns back to quiet weeping, and then to panting, jagged breaths, thick with exhaustion. But the tears stop, mostly, and Geralt is wondering if that means he should let go—if he'll even be able to make himself—when Jaskier lifts his head from Geralt's shoulder and finally looks at him.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, looking painfully embarrassed. "I didn't mean—I didn't mean to just. Do that."

"You've nothing to apologize for," Geralt tells him. " _I'm_ sorry. I should have been more careful, I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have—"

"No," Jaskier says fiercely, and it's so surprising Geralt just stares at him. "You didn't do anything, don't you dare blame yourself. I just—I was just sad, I suppose."

Geralt's not sure if he should ask, but he can't stop himself. "Why?"

"Because—" Jaskier bites his lip for a moment, before seeming to jump off some precipice in his mind and lifting his head, determined. "Because I don't want to leave you. I never want to leave. I know you don't—you don't feel the same way, and you don't have to, I'm not asking for that. I wouldn't ask you to...to feel something you don't feel. But I do, and I'm sorry but I can't change it, so if you want to stop...sleeping together, or, or travelling with me," he says, and to Geralt's alarm his voice grows thick again, "I understand. It's...it's okay." His voice cracks on the last word but he doesn't look away from Geralt even as his eyes grow wet and shiny again.

After years of forcing himself not to say what his heart wants to say to Jaskier, it should be more of a struggle to get the words out, but they practically tear themselves loose. "I don't want you to leave," Geralt says, and Jaskier's eyes widen.

"You don't?"

"Or I want to go with you. I always want to go with you, and I know it's. It's stupid, bringing a witcher to a music festival. You'd hardly get any stories out of it. But—"

"Come with me," Jaskier breathes, and Geralt forgets what he was going to say.

"Are you sure?"

"Geralt," Jaskier says, "I thought I was clear about this just now, but apparently you need to hear the actual words, so here they are: I love you." And then he _continues,_ even though Geralt's heart has stopped beating and the whole world has contracted to the single bright point of Jaskier's face. "I always want you with me, and I never want to leave you, and you should come with me to Novigrad, and then I'll go with you to—to wherever you want to go after that. If you want," he adds, with a sudden flash of shyness, and Geralt can't do anything—anything at all—except kiss him.

Jaskier kisses him back, and for all the hunger and desperation between them it's shockingly soft, the kind of gentle, _revealing_ kiss he's never dared to offer before. It's the kind of kiss Jaskier likes, apparently, to judge from the overwhelming scent of happiness that floats up from his skin as they hold each other—likes as much as the rougher touch Geralt thought for so long was all he wanted. If not more.

"Do you..." Geralt asks, trepidation heavy in his belly, but he has to know. "Do you like it when we fuck? I mean, the way we fuck. Rough. I always thought you wanted..."

"I _love_ it," Jaskier says without hesitation, and the terrible knot in Geralt's chest starts to ease. "Gods, I love it. I just...sometimes I want to be gentle with you, you know? And I want—this, afterward."

"Being held."

"Held," Jaskier agrees, "touched, kissed. Is that okay?"

Geralt kisses him again in answer and feels the last bit of tension melt out of Jaskier's body. 

They kiss for some time, soft and lazy and utterly without purpose. Eventually, Jaskier starts to yawn, and lets out a soft laugh.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "Apparently sobbing your eyes out is kind of exhausting."

Geralt squeezes him one last time before letting him go, though he doesn't move more than an inch or two away. "Sleep," he says. "We've got a long day tomorrow."

"Yes," Jaskier says, with a dozy smile, "we do, don't we? Got to get to Novigrad."

"I know a shortcut," Geralt says, stroking a thumb gently across his brow as his eyes flutter closed.

"Mmm, good. Knew I kept you around for a reason." His face slackens, and for a minute he's silent. Just when Geralt thinks he's fallen asleep, though, he whispers, "Stay?"

"Always," Geralt says quietly, and as if he's somehow given permission Jaskier's breathing slows and evens as he drifts off. Geralt follows soon after with surprising ease, thinking of the road to Novigrad. He does know a shortcut—it's not the easiest terrain, but Jaskier can ride for the tough parts, and they'll get there a day or two earlier, which is a day or two he can keep Jaskier to himself. A day or two they can spend in an inn, holding and touching and kissing to their heart's content.

He still isn't sure of himself, here—still worries that he'll somehow ask for too much, _need_ too much, that his heart's content will turn out to be entirely too large and unwieldy. But for the moment, with Jaskier breathing steadily beside him, his worries seem terribly far off and small.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I'm working on the kidfic sequel, and my other WIPs. This just...seized me. I wasn't even going to post it as a separate work, but then it got longer than 2000 words and them's the rules.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://some-stars.tumblr.com/) for Witcher shitposts, WIP updates, occasional prompt fills, and just because I very much need people to talk to about this stupid, stupid show. :D? :D? Also if you would like to reblog this story, you can [do so here!](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/616569466823770112/as-often-as-from-thee-i-go-somestars-the)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] As often as from thee I go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495073) by [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




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